The Last Man To Murder

by Dan Ames

  Tallon took his cue and left, waiting until he heard all of the locks being thrown into place behind him.

  He got into his rental, and headed back toward his hotel.

  The phone call from Monica’s mother had been unfortunate. He wanted to know more about Fackrell’s behavior the next day. Had he realized what he’d done? Gone and confronted this group? He clearly hadn’t told them that he’d spilled some of the beans to Monica, because she would probably be dead now, too.

  Still, there were too many questions and not enough answers. He needed to–

  Just then, his phone buzzed. He was hoping it would be Monica and that he could turn around and get more answers, but it wasn’t.

  “Holy shit! Lauren Pauling!” Tallon smiled into the phone. Pauling had a great voice, sort of a jazz singer meets a whiskey drinker meets Kathleen Turner. It was always good to hear from her, literally.

  “The one and only,” she answered.

  Suddenly, it clicked into place for Tallon. “Operation Reacher,” he guessed. “That’s why you’re calling?”

  “I knew I came to the right man,” she said.

  “Not really,” he said. “I don’t know shit. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “Well, tell me what you know,” she said. “And then I’ll tell you why I’m calling.”

  Tallon filled her in on finding Carl Fackrell in his front yard, murdered, with a bloody torn piece of paper bearing the words Operation Reacher.

  From there, he told her about calling Roy, and his knowledge of Fackrell’s background, and then the incident at the redneck bar and Monica.

  “Interesting,” she said. “No idea who Fackrell was hanging out with and who might want him dead?”

  “Not yet,” Tallon said. “One last thing I just learned. Do you know what a Borken is? Or who?”

  Tallon heard a sharp intake of breath.

  “Beau Borken?” Pauling asked.

  “Sounds like a character on a sitcom,” Tallon said.

  “Only if the sitcom is about some crazy-ass militia in Montana who wanted to blow people up and secede from the USA.”

  “So Borken is a real guy?”

  “Was a real guy. The Feds got him. And Jack Reacher.”

  Tallon felt the piece of the puzzle click into place. “Ah. So that’s where Operation Reacher came into the conversation.”

  “Maybe. But Borken died years ago.”

  “I told you what I’ve found out,” Tallon said. “Why don’t you share how you got involved in this goat rodeo?”

  He listened as she told him about Logan and Gina Brody, the idea that Operation Reacher was a plan by a jealous man to kill his wife and her lover.

  “Not likely,” Tallon said. “My thing is totally different. Fackrell was military. I was military. It’s the name of an operation, therefore military in nature. Not a love triangle gone wrong.”

  “So why did your name come up?”

  “Well, it must have to do with what I’ve found.”

  “I’m not a big believer in coincidences,” Pauling said. “The two of us have a history. And we both are exposed to the term Operation Reacher within roughly the same 48-hour time period? And they’re not related? I don’t think so.”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Tallon said.

  “What’s that?”

  “We need to join forces.”

  31

  She followed Tallon, reluctantly.

  Kate’s real desire was to go into the woman’s shitty apartment and paint the walls with blood. She had her roll of surgical-grade knives on the seat next to her. They were begging to be used, calling to her.

  The voices sounded real, and convincing.

  But instructions were instructions and they were meant to be followed.

  Or there would be consequences.

  Kate had learned the hard way as an overweight child that not following instructions resulted in pain, brutality and shame.

  She closed her mind to memories of those awful days, before her mind finally broke into a million little pieces. However, once the person she had been shattered, some of the pieces reformed.

  And the new creation was wholly unlike the previous.

  The phoenix that rose from the ashes welcomed violence and was utterly unmoved by compassion or feeling.

  Kate’s father, an alcoholic psychopath, had been her first victim. He was a deer hunter and when she finally managed to kill him, she had flayed him like the carcasses she’d often seen hanging in the garage.

  The process had been a revelation and a rejuvenation.

  Which is why her father was her first victim, but certainly not the last.

  And now, she was forgoing the woman, whose name was Monica, in order to follow Tallon, the man who murdered the only thing she’d ever cared about in her tortured life.

  Tallon would pay, and pay dearly.

  Maybe she would kill the Monica woman in front of him.

  But did he care about her? It would be better if he did. If he loved her. But Kate was pretty sure they’d just met.

  She was pondering this problem when her new instructions arrived via a text message on the burner cell phone, just like the one William had with him when he was shot.

  From the new message, Kate learned that another woman was joining Tallon, and it sounded like Tallon actually cared about this one. He had a history with her.

  That changed everything.

  In the end, the impulses proved too much and Kate changed her mind. It wasn’t the first time she’d ever ignored her instructions, but it was a rare occurrence.

  The blood lust was upon her and there was nothing she could do about it.

  She decided not to go after Tallon first.

  Kate would wait until the new woman arrived, and in the meantime, she would go back and take care of the other one.

  Monica.

  It was the beauty of being a freelancer. Sure, she had strict orders. But the orders didn’t always include the means by which those goals were to be attained. As long as the end result was achieved, everyone was happy.

  Kate made it back to the condo where she’d watched Tallon and the woman named Monica go into the second unit from the end. Tucking her surgical knives under arm, Kate got out of the car, and approached the woman’s door.

  32

  The crew moved at night. It was far too dangerous to operate during daylight, as their kind of cargo would merit much more attention than they could afford.

  So, they drove at night. They used the freeway, in the far right lane, and had papers, all forged, should a curious trooper decide to investigate.

  But so far, they had made it without incident.

  Even though they were one man short.

  Carl Fackrell hadn’t had a huge role in the project, but he had one. Which meant everyone else was expected to pick up the slack for the traitor. Their morale was better than ever after they’d found out what happened. It had brought them together, forced them to circle ranks even more tightly.

  Now, as they crossed the North Carolina border headed for the Outer Banks, the passenger checked his phone for any changes of plan. He was a communications specialist, and one of the most important people in the crew.

  There were no new messages.

  Which was good.

  The death toll from the Mexican blast had been hard to find. Mexican newspapers weren’t eager to report on explosions at drug kingpin compounds. But word had come through that nearly two dozen people at the narcotrafficker’s estate had been blown to bits.

  The passenger smiled.

  They’d already known the mission’s success, it was simply great fun to read about their handiwork, especially the highly creative conspiracy theories that came nowhere close to the truth.

  For a lot of people, the truth would probably turn out to be even more hard to believe.

  Operation Reacher.

  A brilliant stroke from a gifted disciple of a visionary. An inspired s
equence of events.

  What made the deaths in Mexico even more amusing to the ex-military man in the passenger seat, was that there had been no real desire to kill them. It wasn’t a case of vengeance, or a strategic military operation.

  They had done nothing wrong, other than being drug-dealing Mexicans.

  Which was hardly the crime of the century.

  No, their only problem was none of their doing.

  They had simply been target practice.

  33

  Pauling closed her office and condo, took an Uber to the airport and paid special attention the entire time to see if anyone was following. It was habit being a former FBI agent, but she also wondered if somewhere behind her, Logan Brody was still in pursuit.

  From New York, she took a regional airline’s flight direct to Raleigh. From there, she grabbed a rental car and drove out to the Outer Banks. Being a New Yorker, she didn’t drive very often and now, when she did, it was a special treat. She put the windows down, found a good radio station with some vintage rock ‘n roll, and enjoyed the scenery.

  She’d never been to this part of North Carolina before. Just Raleigh, Charlotte and a very brief trip to Asheville, to see the childhood home of one of her favorite authors, Thomas Wolfe. It had been when she was very young and barely remembered the trip. Maybe once she was done with this, she’d drive all the way to Charlotte and fly back from there.

  Now, she felt the road slope downward, toward the low-lying coastal geography. She cruised east on Highway 64, crossed the Alligator River and reached Roanoke Island, where the Lost Colony disappeared. Pauling thought about how much she would have loved to stop and explore the area where one of the great mysteries of American history took place, but she knew it would have to wait.

  Finally, she reached the Outer Banks and followed her GPS to Whitman Beach. She’d arranged to meet Tallon at a small diner miles from the small town.

  Pauling felt herself excited to see Tallon. He was a good-looking man, for one thing, rugged and tough. He was also easy to be with. It was a trait she really enjoyed.

  She found the diner, parked, and spotted Tallon sitting in a corner booth. He got up when she entered and they embraced.

  He looked the same. Dark hair, very muscular upper body, and an expression that appeared slightly amused. Seeing Michael Tallon always made her smile, maybe because she felt that his eyes were always smiling back at her.

  “Tallon,” she said.

  “You look great,” he said. This time, he was outright smiling. Maybe because the last time they’d worked together, the job had ended with them in a luxurious hotel room. It had been quite wonderful, Pauling remembered.

  And judging by the big grin on Tallon’s face, he felt the same.

  “Thanks. What’s good?” she asked, nodding toward the menu.

  “Coffee. And probably the toast. After that, you’re swimming in murky waters.”

  A waitress came by and filled Pauling’s coffee cup.

  “I put a room on hold for you at my hotel,” he said. “You can either look at it as a dump, or as kitschy cool. I’m going with kitschy cool.”

  “Nothing wrong with a little kitsch,” she said. “So, coffee, and then what?”

  “I figured we would swing by, pick up Monica, and see if we can get a handle on this Borken dude,” he said. “I know he’s dead. But, obviously, someone is following in his footsteps. I’ve got an idea of who might be able to help.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Pauling said. She drank her coffee and was not surprised to find it tasted pretty good. The cup was old and chipped, but as long as the stuff inside wasn’t weak, then it had done its job.

  “Man, Jack Reacher sure gets around, doesn’t he?” Tallon asked.

  Pauling nodded. “That’s his thing. After a life in the army, he just wanted freedom. An ATM card and a toothbrush, most of the time. Buys his clothes, wears them, buys new ones, throws the old stuff away.”

  “A man committed to having no commitments,” Tallon said.

  Pauling considered just how true that was. Tallon must have caught something in her expression because he quickly added, “When I first saw Operation Reacher, I wondered about that. My first thought was that maybe someone was trying to kill him.”

  “I suppose someone could try. If it were me, Jack Reacher would be the last man I’d want to try to murder.”

  “Sounds like a few have tried, and none succeeded. Certainly not this Borken guy.”

  “No, I did some more research on the flight down,” Pauling said. “It was a big deal within the FBI, because there were two traitors inside the Bureau, secretly working for Borken, who was some sort of self-styled charismatic visionary. With a plan for a new kind of society, apart from the United States. It was really a bunch of hogwash, but he dressed it up some for his followers. In any event, thanks to the moles within the Bureau, the news coverage was pretty contained. Very hushed up.”

  “The Bureau didn’t want it to get out that they had a pair of dirty agents working for them,” Tallon said. “Even worse, they were working with someone who wanted to destroy the very country they were sworn to protect. About as traitorous as you can get.”

  “Exactly. But there was plenty of internal communication about it,” she said. “So, if we can gather some intel down here, and compare it with what I’ve read about the old Borken case, maybe we’ll get somewhere. Find out what exactly Fackrell had stumbled into, and what Operation Reacher might be all about.”

  Tallon paid the check and they left in his vehicle.

  “When this is all over, I want to go check out this Lost Colony,” Pauling said. “Fascinating story. An entire community. Just gone. Like smoke.”

  “This place is just full of mysteries,” Tallon said.

  It took them less than five minutes to get to Monica’s condo. They parked, and Tallon went to the door. He knocked, waited, knocked again, and sent her a text.

  No response.

  He tried the door.

  It was unlocked.

  Pauling drew her gun and followed Tallon inside the condo. He flicked the light on and Pauling saw blood.

  There was blood everywhere.

  34

  The men in the wine cellar were not happy.

  “This was supposed to be off the books, completely,” the man at the head of the table said.

  “It is,” Charles June answered.

  It was cool in the room, but June felt warm. A thin layer of cigar smoke hovered overhead.

  “There were multiple intrusions into the database, with requests for information on Operation Reacher,” one of the men said. “That is not off the books. That is very much in the books.”

  “Was,” Charles June answered. “That information was wiped completely clean. And it was inserted by me for strategic reasons. Believe me, I control the database and all signs of activity are gone. Forever. Untraceable.”

  “We’re not convinced,” one of the men said. “And we think it’s time to pull the plug. I was never a fan of this project and you haven’t inspired confidence in me. In fact, I’m not sure you’re being transparent over your intentions with this project.”

  The man speaking was a low-ranking government employee at the Pentagon. He’d been brought into the fold by the men around the table for his access.

  “There was a recent incident in Mexico that had all the hallmarks of rogue activity. Are you sure you’re being above board?”

  “Absolutely,” June lied. The truth was, he was about as far below board as a person could possibly get. He’d needed the men here to approve the military hardware. Once the test was complete, he no longer needed them. Everything he had told them so far had been complete and total fabrication. They thought they were contributing to a black ops program that would take out ISIS fighters in Syria. It was a lie that had been easily sold, as these were the kind of men built to destroy the enemy.

  “Well, we are committed to this project, and I want to know that you are commi
tted to full visibility on this thing,” the man continued, lecturing June like he was a wayward child.

  “I understand, but I have a demonstration that should show you exactly how committed I am to keeping Operation Reacher,” June said.

  Just then, the door to the wine cellar opened up and Logan and Gina Brody stepped inside.

  “Who the-”

  The new additions to the wine cellar raised their silenced pistols and fired. A series of double-taps were flawlessly executed, marked by a soft coughing sound as each bullet was fired, like an old man clearing his throat twice in rapid succession.

  As the shooters emptied their pistols, the men around the table each reacted differently to their own deaths. One’s head plopped forward and landed on the conference room table with a wet smack. Another man, thinner than the rest, slid downward in his seat and crashed to the floor beneath the table.

  In a matter of moments, the men around the wine cellar were dead.

  Charles June silently surveyed the damage, then crossed the room to the first section of wine bottles. He thoughtfully selected one, studied the label and then glanced at Logan and Gina.

  “Take one of these, they’re like ten grand a bottle.”

  35

  The Whitman Beach Police Department arrived in force. The chief, a sergeant, and a handful of officers.

  Monica’s condo was cordoned off, and both Tallon and Pauling were questioned. The cops were especially interested in Tallon, as he admitted that he had been in the condo with her the night before.

  For Tallon, the murder was hard to reconcile with the vibrant and beautiful young woman he had just been speaking with. The horror was acute.

  Monica had been tortured, brutally. Slashes over most of her body, her eyes cut out, her head nearly decapitated. She’d been bound and gagged.

  Eventually, a crime scene technician from the North Carolina State Highway Patrol arrived, and Tallon was hauled off for questioning. Pauling wasn’t taken as she had just arrived in the morning.